The hum of the industrial-grade fans in the Mehdipatnam community hall was a low, anxious thrum beneath the murmur of a hundred prayers. The hall, usually reserved for weddings and local functions, was a sea of plastic chairs, all pointed towards a giant projector screen.
The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, sweat, and the sharp, nervous tang of samosas that no one was yet brave enough to eat.
Vikram Deva sat in the front row, his "lucky" blue shirt already damp with perspiration. Beside him, Sesikala's hands were a blur, her prayer beads clicking like a frantic metronome.
Behind them, Arjun and his friends were watching the screen intensely.
The colony was ready. On the screen, the broadcast from Kuala Lumpur flickered to life.
"A very good morning to you all, wherever you are watching across the globe! This is David Lloyd, alongside my colleague, Sunil Gavaskar, and what a day we have for you!"
The camera panned over a sun-drenched Kinrara Academy Oval, the grass a perfect, electric green.
"This is it, Sunil," David said, his voice brimming with energy. "The final of the ICC Under-19 World Cup. Two powerhouses have reached the summit. It's the structured, ruthless professionalism of South Africa versus the flair, fire, and sheer individual brilliance of India."
Sunil's calm, measured voice took over. "You're absolutely right, David. South Africa, led by the astute Wayne Parnell, haven't just won matches; they've clinically dismantled them. They are a true team. But India... India is a different story. They are a team of superstars, a team of future legends. They have the tournament's two most exciting players: the aggressive, brilliant captain, Virat Kohli, and the player who has taken this tournament by storm, the all-rounder Siddanth Deva."
On the screen, the camera zoomed in on the Indian team huddle.
In the community hall, a cheer went up just at the sight of him. "SIDDU! SIDDU!"
"Look at that, Vikram," Sesikala whispered, clutching her husband's arm. "He's on the television. He looks so... calm."
Vikram just nodded, his throat tight, his eyes fixed on the screen.
"And we're down to the toss," David announced. "Virat Kohli will spin the coin. Parnell calls... and India has won the toss in the World Cup Final!"
The hall erupted. Vikram clapped his hands once, a sharp, decisive sound. "Good. Good start."
"And what a surprise!" Sunil's voice cut through the cheers. "Virat Kohli has looked at this flat, hard batting paradise... and he has elected to bat! This is a high-pressure decision. He is backing his batsmen to put a score on the board. He's challenging South Africa to chase them down in a final."
The Indian openers walked out. The hall settled into a tense, agonizing silence for the next few hours.
The innings was a grind. This was not an easy match; it was a final. The South African bowling, led by Parnell, was disciplined and suffocating. Wickets fell at crucial intervals. Tanmay Srivastava played a gritty anchor role, but he fell for 45. Virat Kohli, after a blazing 30, was caught by a spectacular diving catch at point.
"It's just not our day," Arjun muttered, his pen scratching furiously. "They're 230 for 5, and the 48th over is starting. We need 250, minimum. We need a miracle."
"Shh!" Sesikala hissed, her eyes closed in prayer.
*"And that's a wicket!"* David's voice boomed. *"A tired shot from Saurabh Tiwary, and he's caught at mid-off. India is 231 for 6, and the momentum is well and truly with South Africa. This brings the 'Hyderabad Hurricane' to the crease... Siddanth Deva. He has just under two overs. What can he do?"*
The community hall, which had been a nervous murmur, exploded.
"COME ON, SIDDU!"
"SIXER, SIDDU!"
Vikram Deva gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white. Sesikala's prayers became audible.
On the screen, Siddanth took his guard. He looked... angry. He looked like he found this all a bit insulting.
He wasn't on strike. He ran a single on the last ball of the 48th, giving the strike to Jadeja.
One over left. The 49th.
Jadeja took a single off the first ball.
11 balls left for Siddanth. He was on strike, facing Wayne Parnell, the South African captain.
*"Parnell, the star, versus Deva, the prodigy. This is the contest,"* Sunil murmured.
Parnell ran in. He bowled a fast, 140kph yorker.
Siddanth, seeing the ball as if in slow motion, didn't just block it. He shuffled his wrists, snapping at the last second, and *ramped* it. It was an impossible, audacious shot.
*"He's done it! He's scooped him! Over the keeper's head! It's gone for four!"*
In the hall, Arjun was on his feet, screaming. "HE DID THE SHOT! HE DID THE SHOT, UNCLE!"
Parnell was furious. He ran in and dug the next one in short, a 145kph bouncer.
Siddanth swiveled, his body a perfect, fluid arc, and pull-hooked it.
The sound from the bat was a *crack* that echoed around the stadium.
*"OH, MY WORD! That is a monstrous shot! He's hit that 145kph bouncer onto the roof of the stadium! A 100-meter six!"*
Vikram was now the one roaring. "THAT'S MY BOY! THAT IS MY SON!"
Parnell had lost it. He bowled the next ball, a full toss, in sheer rage.
Siddanth didn't even swing hard. He just... connected. A classical, straight drive that was more of a punch.
"It's a laser beam! Four runs! Past the bowler before he could even blink!"
The last over. Siddanth faced 4 more balls.
He had faced 7 balls. He had scored 23 runs. He finished not out.
"What an incredible, explosive finish!" David yelled. "Siddanth Deva, with 23 runs off just 7 deliveries, has single-handedly dragged India from a respectable total to a truly formidable one! India finishes on 261 for 6. Siddanth Deva... what a player."
The community hall was a madhouse. The innings break was a party. Samosas were devoured. Vikram Deva was being hugged by men he barely knew. Sesikala was quietly handing out sweets, her face a beacon of pure, unadulterated pride.
"He did it," Vikram whispered to her, his voice thick with emotion. "He did his job."
---
"Welcome back to the second innings," Sunil's voice returned, all business. "262 to win. A very stiff target in a World Cup final. The South African openers look determined."
On the screen, the Indian team was in a tight huddle. Kohli was screaming, his face red. Siddanth was next to him, his expression calm.
"And it's a surprise!" David announced. "The captain, Kohli, has given the new ball... to Siddanth Deva! He's backing his all-rounder. He's backing the 'Hurricane' to start the storm!"
Vikram sat down. The samosa in his hand was forgotten.
Siddanth ran in, his long, loping run. His first ball was **150kph**, a searing, unplayable outswinger.
The opener was beaten all ends up. "Goodness, me! 150 clicks in his first ball! The boy is breathing fire!"*
In his second over, he got his reward.
"It's the yorker! The 151kph yorker! It's unplayable! It's shattered the stumps! Deva draws first blood! India has their breakthrough!"
WICKET 1.
The hall exploded.
But the South Africans were tough. They rebuilt. Their captain, and their set number 3, batted with the grit Rajput had warned them about. They took the score to 110 for 1. The game was slipping.
Kohli brought Siddanth back.
"This is a crucial spell,"* Sunil noted. "India needs a wicket. Deva set to bowl."
Siddanth ran in, his action identical, that same 150kph approach. But at the last second, his fingers rolled over the ball. It was the 105kph slower-ball yorker.
The set batsman, who had been batting for two hours, was through his shot a week early. The ball, a floating, magical, evil thing, looped under his bat and kissed the base of the off-stump.
WICKET 2.
"He's a genius!" Arjun screamed, pointing at the screen.
The game got tighter. South Africa, with their deep batting, kept coming. They needed 40 runs from 30 balls. Two wickets left.
Siddanth was brought back for the 47th over. His third wicket. A brutal bouncer that the batsman could only fend off to gully.
WICKET 3.
Vikram was pacing at the back of the hall. He couldn't sit. "Come on, Siddu. One more. Just one more."
Sesikala's eyes were shut. She was just listening to the roar of the crowd and the sound of the commentary, her lips moving in a silent prayer.
It all came down to the final over. South Africa needed 9 runs. One wicket in hand. Ravindra Jadeja was the bowler. Siddanth was placed deep, a lone, blue sentinel at deep-mid-wicket.
"This is it. The final over of the World Cup. Jadeja to Parnell... South Africa needs 9 runs. India needs one wicket."
*Ball 1:* A dot. (The hall gasps).
*Ball 2:* A single. (A groan).
*Ball 3:* Another single. (7 runs needed from 3 balls).
*Ball 4:* The non-striker is on strike. He swings... and misses! (A roar!)
*Ball 5:* 7 runs needed. 2 balls left. The batsman swings... and gets an inside edge! They run a single!
Parnell is back on strike.
**6 runs needed. 1 ball left.**
"David leaned forward. "Parnell needs a six to win."
Jadeja ran in. He bowled. Parnell, with the last, defiant roar of a beaten lion, swung with all his might. He connected.
The sound was sickening.
"HE'S GOT HIM! PARNELL HAS HIT IT! HE'S HIT IT HIGH, HE'S HIT IT HARD! IT'S GOING, IT'S GOING... IT'S SAILING TOWARDS THE DEEP MID-WICKET BOUNDARY! IT'S GOING FOR SIX! SOUTH AFRICA... NO... WAIT!"
The camera panned, a blurry, frantic shot, following the white dot against the black sky.
"THERE'S A MAN UNDER IT! THERE'S A MAN SPRINTING... IT'S SIDDANTH DEVA! HE'S RUNNING... HE'S RUNNING FROM DEEP-SQUARE-LEG... HE'S COVERING THE GROUND... HE'S NOT GOING TO GET THERE... HE'S NOT..."
In the community hall, everyone was on their feet, screaming, their hands on their heads. Vikram Deva stood frozen, his heart having stopped.
"HE DIVES! HE DIVES! A FULL-LENGTH, SUPERMAN DIVE! HE'S PARALLEL TO THE GROUND... HIS ARM IS OUT... ONE HAND!"
The screen was a blur of motion. Deva. The ball. The grass.
"HE'S GOT IT! HE... HAS... GOT IT! HE'S GOT IT! I DON'T BELIEVE IT! I DO NOT BELIEVE WHAT I HAVE JUST SEEN! SIDDANTH DEVA HAS TAKEN A ONE-HANDED, FULL-LENGTH DIVE TO WIN THE WORLD CUP! THE CATCH OF THE TOURNAMENT! THE CATCH OF A LIFETIME!"
The Indian team was already sprinting towards the boundary. The South African batsman was on his knees, his head in his hands.
"INDIA ARE THE CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD! AND SIDDANTH DEVA IS THE MAN WHO HAS DELIVERED IT! 23 RUNS OFF 7 BALLS! THREE VITAL WICKETS! AND A CATCH THAT WILL BE ETCHED IN THE HISTORY OF CRICKET FOREVER!"
In the Mehdipatnam community hall, there was a half-second of stunned, absolute silence as a hundred minds tried to process the physics of what they had just witnessed.
Then... detonation.
Vikram Deva let out a roar that came from his very soul, a sound of such pure, primal joy that it shook the projector. Arjun and his friends were a pile of bodies, having simply tackled each other to the floor, screaming, "HE CAUGHT IT! HE CAUGHT IT!"
And Sesikala... she wasn't praying. She was standing, her hands still clasped together, tears streaming down her face, a smile of beautiful pride on her face that it outshone the projector's beam. She was just watching her son, the boy in the blue jersey at the bottom of a pile of his celebrating teammates, the hero of a billion people, the champion of the world.